Plato before Socrates, Cromwell before Fawkes…Ravenscroft and Sidwell before Trent.

Caroline slammed Milton on top of Machiavelli. This wasn't right. They shouldn't have gone without her. She had diagrammed the floor plan of Prewitt Hall for them, but nothing could substitute for firsthand knowledge. Without her they were in danger of stepping into the wrong room, of waking a servant, of—she gulped with fear—getting themselves killed.

The thought of losing her newfound friends was like ice around her heart. She'd spent a lifetime on the fringes of families, and now that she'd finally found two people who needed her—even if it was purely on a level of national security—she didn't want to sit on her hands and watch them walk headfirst into danger.

The marquis himself had said that she was crucial to their investigation. And as for Blake—Well, Blake didn't much like to admit that she was in any way involved in their work for the War Office, but even he had said she'd done a good job briefing them about the Prewitt household and their habits.

She knew they would fare better with her on-scene assistance. Why, they didn't even know about—

Caroline clapped her hand to her mouth in horror. How could she have forgotten to tell them about Farnsworth's evening tea? It was a ritual for the butler. Every night, like clockwork, he took tea at ten. It was an odd custom, but one upon which Farnsworth insisted. Tea, steaming hot, with milk and sugar, butter shortbread and strawberry jam—he demanded his nightly snack, and woe to anyone who interrupted. Caroline had once borrowed the teapot and found herself without blankets for a week. In December.

Caroline's eyes flew to the grandfather clock. It was quarter past nine. Blake and James had left fifteen minutes ago. They would be arriving at Prewitt Hall at…

Oh dear Lord, they would be arriving right when Farnsworth was preparing his snack. The butler might be getting on in years, but he was certainly not frail, and he was rather handy with firearms. And he had to travel directly past the south drawing room on the way from his chambers to the kitchen.

Caroline stood, her eyes wide and her expression resolute. They needed her. Blake needed her. She could never live with herself if she didn't go to warn them.

Without a care to her ankle, she dashed from the room, heading directly toward the stables.

Caroline rode like the proverbial wind. She wasn't the finest rider; in all truth, most of her guardians hadn't given her much opportunity to practice, but she was competent and could hold her seat.

And she'd certainly never had such a good reason to carry on in full gallop.

By the time she reached the edge of Oliver's property, the pocket watch she'd snatched from Blake's desk gave the time as exactly ten o'clock. She tied the mare—which she'd also “borrowed” from Blake—to a tree and crept toward the house, keeping herself hidden behind the tall hedges that ran alongside the drive. When she reached Prewitt Hall, she dropped to her hands and knees. She doubted that anyone was still awake, save for Farnsworth in the kitchen, but it seemed prudent to keep her silhouette from passing by any windows.